


As Directed

by Walor



Series: Discord Requests One-Shots [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Whipping, Young Slade Wilson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-08 22:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14703504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walor/pseuds/Walor
Summary: Slade has trouble playing nice with others and his new commanding officer isn't about to let that slide.





	As Directed

**Author's Note:**

> barely edited i'm sick sorry bros

Men usually join the army because they either A.) Are in desperate need of money to support a family B.) Have delusions of grandeur and think that wearing a camouflage and shooting a gun will fulfill that idea—hint, it won’t. Or C.) Want to kill people and it’s the only way they are legally allowed to do so.

Slade’s certain there are other reasons men and women join the military. Patriotic duty, protect their loved ones, etc. etc. but Slade’s been around the barracks long enough to categorize new recruits into his three perfect categories. In his case, he’s organized himself into column C. And if anyone had the means to look any deeper into his past history they’d find out that when it came to the legality versus urge to kill, that Slade wouldn’t hesitate, law or no, to kill a man under the right circumstances.

Steve Trevor, on the other hand, is dead on column B. He’s older than Slade is by at least two years—though their papers say they’re the same age, birthdays only a month apart—with wheat-colored blonde hair to Slade’s ash-near white hair, with a full beard and mustache where Slade’s only just started to get stubble. He’s former Air Force to Slade’s former Marine, with arrogance shared by all men that brag about high kill counts from dropping bombs but have never stared down the barrel of a gun.

Steve also has the experience of dropping onto a formerly invisible island full of ageless female warriors that, according to Steve, “were pretty enough to make Hollywood starlets look like Baba Yaga.” Slade’s certain he’s not the only one who thinks Trevor would look better with a lot fewer teeth. Unfortunately, SIS field agent William Randolph Wintergreen, their current overseeing commander while Slade’s squad was tasked with hunting down members of Basilisk, didn’t share the same opinion.

Even worse, his approach to disciplinary action was a lot more unconventional than the normal “anger management sessions” his former general gave him.

Unconventional, of course, means stripped naked then tied down, spread eagle to Williams overly large, polished oak desk while William took the decorative, leather riding crop from his wall and snapped it across his back while asking a series of incredibly convoluted questions.

“What’s your real age then?” William asks.

“I already told you, I’m twenty-two-“ the crop cracks down on the raised welts of his back. Slade bites his tongue and blood mixes with the thick strands of saliva already pooling and dripping out of the corners of his panting mouth. They have been doing this for what feels like hours. Legs and arms on the edge of painful numbness and pins-and-needles static. Slade knows at least thirteen different ways to get out of the ropes and thirty-five ways to disarm William and use the crop on him. Or, he could do the easiest thing and just answer William’s questions honestly—which would be smart—but Slade’s been in the business of lying since he was old enough to hold a gun. Which, in Slade’s case, was four years old.

“Imagine my surprise then, dear boy, when Carmine Falcone,” Slade sucks in a breath because no one, not even Lynch and his superiors at the Pentagon had found out about that, “met your former handler. A Mr. Rossi was it? He said he purchased you from your father in 1974 when you were five years old, which would make you around sixteen when you joined the military in 1984. Lying, darling is a particularly nasty habit.”

“Says the SIS agent whose main directive is to lie about who and what he is at all times-” Slade snarls when William whips him again. The sting stays longer than the rest, throbbing against the raised hot skin of his back. Sweat pours down his skin and into the few open wounds, bringing tears to his eyes. Slade hasn’t cried from pain, emotional or physical, since the day his father abandoned him. Certainly wasn’t about to do it in front of some pompous, English jack-off who only became Slade’s commanding officer on a technicality. Slade was a goddamn major for fuck’s sake and the bastard had him running laps and fetching him tea and coffee as if he were only a newly-hazed private.

Disregarding the whole disciplinary action in the form of a riding crop and being nude, Slade’s suffered worse at younger ages. Rossi was incredibly fond of spankings. He liked to do them in front of a number of his men. Falcone, who had him sparingly, liked to unleash verbal tirades that would often end with Slade, at the weak age of eight, seeking the comfort of a father he’d loathed since his fifth birthday. But unlike the men who struck him out of mindless anger—which lasted as quick as it’d taken over—William struck with a patient and deliberate hand. Slade, in fact, doesn’t know how long he’s spent restrained, nude, bent over William’s desk in his temporary, posh office but he can barely feel the tips of his toes clinging into the carpet.

“You really don’t want to test me, Wilson,” William says as if reading his mind. There’s the light step, step, step of William’s expensive Italian loafers and then a finger, feather-light brushes against the trembling, sweat-slick skin of his thigh. “I can hardly imagine this is comfortable for you and I’d hate to leave you here overnight.”

Slade stiffens. “You-John wouldn’t let you-”

“General Lynch,” William corrects with a slap to Slade’s sore backside. “Assigned me as your squadron’s commanding officer until our current operation involving Basilisk concluded. As of now, you listen to my orders like they were his. Do I make myself clear, Major Wilson?”

Slade grits his teeth. “Crystal.”

A whoosh cuts through the air right before fire alights on Slade’s spine as the crop, merciless and sharp, cracks down on his ass. He jolts against the desk, unable to do much more than squirm, harshly panting into the wooden surface.

“I didn’t think your manners were that poor, Major. You will address me correctly or not at all.”

Slade presses his hot forehead against the desk, closing his eyes as he tries to think through the rolling aches of his body. “Yes, _sir_.”

“Good,” Slade tenses as a light hand rests on the curve of his neck. His body is ramrod straight in the anticipation of pain as William presses down against the knobs of his spine. Kneading the skin a minute or two passes before Slade slowly gives into the soothing touch. Breath evening out as the pain is pushed out in a hazy wave of relaxation.

“How old are you, Major?” William asks again.

“Nineteen, sir,” Slade admits. Hardly the worst secret he’s kept in all his years of being alive. As a reward, William moves his hand along the line of his shoulders. Digging his knuckles into the knotted muscle in a such a way if Slade weren’t tied down so effectively he’d be arching under the ministrations. “Though I expect you already knew that, sir."

“Yes,” William says. “But I don’t appreciate my men lying to my face. I’m sure you understand. I doubt you would appreciate Lieutenant-colonel Trevor doing the same to you.”

Slade can think of three things he’d do if Steve ever had the guts to lie to his face about a mission. The flyboy had seniority only by a few months and a number of airmen that had left the chain of command empty—as being KIA tended to do—and in need of vacant spots filled. It didn’t help that Steve was as all-American as they could find them, complete with the lack of suspicious mafia ties and falsified birthdates. Couldn’t stand the bastard’s smug face half the time, especially with that prideful brag he’d always get whenever someone called him the world’s liaison to Themyscira. He had been asking for a punch to the face. Especially with the way he had called Slade’s intelligence on Grey Lora into question.

Slade gasps as William’s hand curls through his hair grabs it by the roots and yanks his head back. William tsks. “I see your drill sergeants did you no favors. You were hardly into your teens when they accepted you. Most men are entering puberty by the time they join the military, it makes it easier to deal with that hormone-fueled rebellion by stamping it out before it becomes a problem. According to Lynch, you were the model of perfect behavior. Given your history with Rossi and the Falcone family, you’ve been taking orders your whole life. Now that you’ve been given a bit of authority at the ages most boys start becoming men you’ve let it go to your head. Hardly your fault that your government can’t be assed to do something as simple as groundwork. They’ll take anyone with two hands and an aptitude for violence.”

He lets Slade’s hair go and trails a thumb down his back, fingers tracing along the welts enough to make Slade hiss and try to move—and fail—away from the probing touches. “We’re looking at a career of court-martials for you. This anger is only going to get worse. I’ve seen it happened to men with more training and infinitely more self-restraint than you clearly possess.”

“Then what do you want me to do?” Slade breathes and groans when William fingers along an open cut with the deliberateness he’s seen possessed by serial-killing sadists. _“Sir._ ”

“You need someone to teach you patience. Someone who can handle your rages and show you how to cope with them that won’t disturb your fellow squad members or superior officers. You’re talented and an exceptional shot, Slade, but none of that will matter if you can’t listen or be willing to relinquish control to someone else. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Slade says and turns his head. William watches him, blue eyes sharp and intense with a sole-burning focus on Slade’s shivering form. He wears a suit rather than a standard military uniform. It cuts a crisp outline among the numerous war medals and crosses decorating the wall alongside old firearms from late nineteenth century to early twentieth. A gentleman first and a soldier second. When Slade first met William, with his combed mustache and dandy style he’d written the man off as the son of a well-to-do family who’d risen in rank by the guiding hand of nepotism. Now, Slade’s shocked at just how badly he’s underestimated him.

Perhaps there was really was something to be gained by William’s interest in him.

“Then allow me to be this for you,” William says. “You have enormous potential, and if there’s anything I hate more than a smart-mouth brat with a proclivity for being ill-mannered, it’s watching natural talent waste away being a desk. Or worse, knowing how quick you are to turn to brutality, the bars of a prison cell.” He pauses and runs his hand slowly down the curve of Slade’s ass, teasingly. “If you let me become your personal instructor, your mentor, I will make sure humility and self-control aren’t the only things you stand to gain from me.” He drags his hand lower, thumb brushing the skin of his perineum. Slade sucks in a breath as that hand cups his half-hard cock, twitching at the attention. At the poise in William’s promise. “Will you let me do this for you, Slade?”

It’s hardly a question. After all, what’s Slade got left to lose that he hasn’t already?

“Yes,” Slade lets out a breath and surrenders himself. Fully, in a way, he’s never thought himself capable since learning to fend for himself. “ _Yes, sir_.”

“Good,” William rests his hand against Slade’s neck. Squeezes his neck slightly and says with a quiet smile, “ _good boy_.”


End file.
